


Looking Just To Make Broke

by HollowpointHeart



Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Frotting, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn with Feelings, Somnophilia, Wild West AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 07:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14971715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollowpointHeart/pseuds/HollowpointHeart
Summary: Jimmy had dragged Edgar into his world years ago, and somewhere in there, Edgar forgot actions have consequences.or the one where the boys are bank robbers and Edgar is a cross dresser.





	Looking Just To Make Broke

**Author's Note:**

> dark shoutout to chokopoppo and desdemonakaylose for coming up with the actual au, and for dez letting me steal some of her lines and proofreading this.
> 
> title is from Hopeless Opus by Imagine Dragons

The robbery had been going so well until Jimmy got shot. It hadn’t seemed real to Edgar then, and it doesn’t seem real now. In the two years and many robberies they’ve worked together, Edgar’s never seen Jimmy so much as twist an ankle. 

But he’d fallen then, in slow motion, with a sharp cry and wide eyes. For the briefest second, he’d looked surprised, less that it had happened and more that it hurt.

And then he was on the ground, prone and far too vulnerable even as he dragged himself to an overturned table. Edgar shot the man who’d done it, a greasy asshole far too eager to get his hands up Edgar’s skirts, and ran to Jimmy. There were no words between them, he had just picked Jimmy up and run.

Jimmy was so light, that had been what really struck him. All those nights with this long, street cat thin form next to him in the dark, and he had never thought of Jimmy as light. Jimmy was the only solid, real thing in Edgar’s life, but then he’d felt as insubstantial as a ghost, even as he bled onto Edgar’s dress.

At the moment, Jimmy is also bleeding and being carried by Edgar, but Edgar feels far less concern and far more annoyance than he had seven days ago. Ever restless, Jimmy had tried to sneak outside while Edgar was engrossed in the cheap book Chuey had likely stolen for him, and had actually made it halfway down the stairs before slipping and popping his stitches against the dirty wall of the stairway to the attic. Edgar lets Jimmy fall to the mattress and ignores his bitching about just wanting a smoke, storming around the small space to find his sewing kit and Jimmy’s flask. He’s not wasting his own alcohol on this idiocy.

When he turns around, Jimmy’s already shucking off his pants and smearing red further down the pale, pale skin, face still in the way it gets when he’s in pain but doesn’t want to show that he’s hurting. Edgar crouches down next to him and inspects the damage. He almost doesn’t hesitate before touching the soft skin.

He should be used to seeing Jimmy undressed. He _is_ used to seeing Jimmy undressed, it’s unavoidable when they’re always on the run. He’s seen Jimmy naked so many times it should have stopped making his body thrum with want a long time ago.

Edgar glares at the popped stitches and dumps half the flask over the oozing blood.

“Fuck!” Jimmy’s leg kicks out, and Edgar catches it by the ankle. “Don’t waste the good shit!”

Edgar focuses his stare on Jimmy, who scowls back. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Only thing to worry about, baby,” Jimmy says, reaching out to touch Edgar’s cheek. He seems unperturbed when Edgar smacks his hand away, irritated. “I know you’ll put me back together again. ‘Sides, I’ve had worse.”

That probably is true. Jimmy is a furious, hard used thing, a shaken bottle of nitroglycerin, and the wound isn’t as bad as they’d first thought. The bullet had gone through the outer edge of his right thigh cleanly and quickly, barely more than an inch between entrance and exit. Edgar’s no doctor, but he suspects that if Jimmy had anything resembling fat on his body, there would be even less damage to his muscle.

But Jimmy is all muscle, Edgar thinks as he starts repairing the damage, the sort of skinny muscle that comes from too many bar fights and too few meals. He’s not handsome or pretty the way he says Edgar is, but after spending so much time with him, his features have grown on Edgar. He’s no longer able to find anything that isn’t beautiful about Jimmy Euridge.

“You could get an infection,” Edgar says because it feels like Jimmy’s waiting for him to speak.

“If I was going to get one,” Jimmy says, “it would’ve happened already.”

“Chuey isn’t known for his cleanliness.” Edgar tugs on the string harder than necessary and sees Jimmy’s fingers tighten in the sheets.

“I was wearing pants,” Jimmy reminds him.

“You aren’t known for your cleanliness,” Edgar says, and Jimmy barks out a surprised laugh. He shoves lightly at Edgar’s shoulder as he’s tying off the stitches, and when Edgar looks up, Jimmy’s smile is something warm and almost sweet. It’s such a rare thing that Edgar can’t help smiling back. 

***

Jimmy goes to bed before Edgar, which should’ve been the first clue that something was wrong, but Edgar had been so excited at the thought of getting to read in peace for once that he ignores it. In fact, it’s not til Jimmy jerks awake again with a sharp cry that Edgar notices anything wrong, and even then, it takes him a split second to recognize that Jimmy is scared. Edgar’s book tumbles to the floor.

It’s easy as breathing to take Jimmy’s face in his hands and brush the pads of his thumbs over his cheekbones, murmuring soothing nonsense like he’s handling a startled horse. The skin under his fingertips is hot, feverishly so. Jimmy’s eyes are wild in a way Edgar’s never seen them. Somehow, he had kid himself into thinking Jimmy didn’t get scared, a fool’s delusion, but even seeing him like this, the idea of Jimmy being truly fearful is jarring and unnatural.

“You left,” Jimmy chokes out. The wild look is starting the fade from his eyes, but there’s still a fever brightness that catches and holds the moonlight.

“No,” Edgar says. “I was right there, reading.”

Jimmy shakes his head. “I dreamed- You left. I made a mistake and I couldn’t remember what and you left me.”

“I could never leave you.” Edgar pushes an errant lock of hair out of Jimmy’s face. “I’ve given you too much.”

Not in a material sense, of course. Edgar had been a holy man when Jimmy found him, living piously, moving from village to town to frontier and back again, except for a small vice for cards and crippling doubt about his place in the world, whether or not he could justify his existence to God when he died. At his lowest point, Edgar had given Jimmy every moral, value, and belief he held and he watched as Jimmy’s quick fire wit and clever tongue had twisted and forged them into something stronger and firmer than anything he’d had before. 

Edgar still believes in God, loves Him, does what he can to serve Him, but Jimmy is a force of his own, and Edgar would worship on bended knees if permitted.

“You have a fever,” Edgar says, to Jimmy and to himself.

“‘M fine,” Jimmy says. Edgar rolls his eyes.

“You’re not.” He stands up and undresses down to his shift. Jimmy stares, he’s never tried to hide the way his eyes search for the line of Edgar’s cock under the thin fabric, but for once, he doesn’t make a comment.

“What’re you doing?” Jimmy asks as Edgar climbs onto the thin mattress behind him. He already sounds like he’s falling asleep, bless him. “You’re on the wrong side.”

“I’m protecting my investment,” Edgar says, wrapping his arm around Jimmy and pulling him snug against his chest. The heat coming off him is enough that Edgar hates to pull the blanket over them, but he needs to break Jimmy’s fever. Jimmy sighs as the wool settles over them and relaxes against Edgar, breathing already evening out into deep sleep.

***

Neither of them sleep well. It’s far too hot for Edgar to drift off for more than a few minutes at a time before waking up sticky with sweat, and he can feel Jimmy waking up every hour or so next to him. Once or twice it’s with another jerk and terrified noise, but mostly it’s just a change in his breathing and a tensing of his muscles against Edgar’s stomach. Everytime Jimmy wakes, Edgar pulls him against his chest and runs fingers through hair growing steadily damp with sweat. 

As the sky outside is just starting to turn gray with the dawn, Jimmy makes a noise like an animal sob and thrashes at the air with clawed hands. His eyes are screwed shut, still trapped in a dream, and Edgar doesn’t think before pulling him close, pinning Jimmy’s hands between their chests and petting his hair.

“Shh, shh,” Edgar whispers. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

A hundred sickbeds and a thousand deathbeds, and he’s never wanted those words to be true more than when he’s cradling a thief and a killer in his arms. 

Slowly, Jimmy’s tremors stop, and he blinks open his eyes. They’re bright in the dark, with fever or tears, Edgar can’t tell, but as Jimmy looks at him with something like wonder, his heart clenches painfully. So wretched, yet somehow lovelier for it.

“You stayed,” Jimmy breathes. He looks shaken, rattled to his bones, breath coming too quickly.

“Of course,” Edgar says, just as softly. “I’ll always stay.”

“You’re going to leave,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “Everyone always leaves.”

Edgar feels like he’s bearing witness to something deeply private, something not meant for his or any eyes, like rifling through someone’s room while they’re out. He knows and has known that Jimmy must doubt himself from time to time, as every man does. And yet to have confirmation of that vulnerability, so see the walls of reckless confidence crumble to dust, Edgar feels his whole world shift. 

“I won’t,” Edgar says. He cups Jimmy’s cheek with one hand and holds his gaze steady. “I’ll never leave you of my own free will.”

One of Jimmy’s hands snags Edgar’s free one and clenches it in a vice like grip, urgency in his feverish gaze. “Promise,” he demands. “Promise you won’t leave me.”

The urge to kiss him is overwhelming. Does Jimmy know how much this sounds like a declaration of love? Can he see how much Edgar wants it, wants him? He runs fingers through Jimmy’s hair again, helpless to the way Jimmy pushes into the touch.

“I promise,” Edgar says. “I won’t leave you.”

The hard lines of fear and not quite anger smooth out, and Jimmy relaxes his grip on Edgar’s hand, but doesn’t let go. He wriggles closer, tucking his head under Edgar’s chin, and even though the way they usually sleep, with Jimmy’s sleeping form wrapped around Edgar’s, is more physically close, this feels more intimate. As Jimmy’s breathing evens out, Edgar shifts so his lips are resting on Jimmy’s hairline and tells himself it isn’t a kiss, as he drifts to sleep himself.

***

The wound is red and swollen against the stitches when Edgar checks it in the morning, and he swears. Jimmy is awake and looks like he wishes that he were not. His skin shines with sweat. While he’s always been pale, the sickly pallor he’s taken on makes him look like a fish belly. In a way, Edgar is selfishly glad Jimmy looks frail and wretched. The close proximity and constant touching of their skin is driving Edgar out of his mind.

“Where are you going?” Jimmy asks as Edgar stands up. He sounds more tired and ornery than sick, which is for the best really.

“To tell Chuey to get medicine.” Edgar wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it into the corner.

“Why?” Jimmy pouts. Some of yesterday’s frustration mixes with worry in Edgar’s chest. 

“Because you’re the only person I know lucky enough to avoid an infection from the bullet but stupid enough to get an infection trying to smoke,” Edgar snaps. “Get ahold of yourself and let someone take care of you for once. We’ve been working together for years, I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” Jimmy says sullenly. 

“Then _trust me_ ,” Edgar says.

“I do trust you.” Jimmy crosses his arms and scowls, something that would’ve been more intimidating if he weren’t sick.

“Act like it,” Edgar says, but he’s already softening. He’s so weak for this boy. He’d do anything for him, and he’s certain Jimmy knows it. “I’ll be right back.”

Downstairs, Chuey is playing cards with Chico, each with a glass of whiskey like it isn’t barely ten in the morning. They seem sober enough if nothing else. Jimmy wouldn’t work with complete half wits, though Edgar does wonder sometimes.

“Jimmy’s got an infection,” Edgar says. “He needs medicine.”

The two men’s smiles drop, and they sit up a little straighter.

“How bad?” Chico asks.

“Not too bad yet,” Edgar says. “Still, get it quickly.”

Chico nods, grabs his coat, and hurries out the door. Part of Edgar is frustrated he can’t go get the medicine himself, but some of the bank employees had gotten a pretty good look at him and Jimmy once things had turned south. He could go out in a suit, the authorities will be looking for a stern Mexican woman, but it seems silly to take the risk.

“Need anything else, sweetheart?” Chuey asks.

Edgar rolls his eyes. “I’m not your sweetheart.”

There’s no bite to the words, and Chuey laughs. Bless his heart, he really is convinced Edgar is a woman who occasionally cross dresses as a man rather than the other way around. After this long, Edgar wonders if it’s sheer stubbornness against being proved wrong that maintains this belief. 

To be fair, Edgar does spend more time in a dress than out of it these days, even if he is wearing pants and an undershirt now. It had started as innocently as a thing like this could, preaching the wrong liberal thing in the wrong town and getting run out by a mob, causing him to disguise himself in certain areas. Then he had discovered he could play cards in the areas he preached in if he wore a dress. Then he’d stolen a petticoat from the daughter of a woman putting him up for a few weeks, a nasty young woman with no respect for anyone. He’d started spending more and more time in dresses, playing cards by night and preaching the gospel by day.

And then he’d met Jimmy. He’d destroyed the boy at cards, and Jimmy had been hellbent on fucking a tight lipped, bespectacled woman. He’d only been more enthusiastic upon finding out Edgar was a man, shamelessly propositioning him whenever the opportunity arose, and somewhere in there had convinced Edgar to become his partner in crime. 

“Tell Chico to come up when he has the medicine,” Edgar says. Chuey gives him a salute, and grabs some food and a tin cup full of water from the kitchen before heading upstairs. 

***

Edgar runs his fingers through Jimmy’s hair and watches the shadows on the wall climb higher and higher as the sun goes down. Could he have done something to prevent this? He turns the sequence of events over and over in his mind, worrying them like a dog with a bone. Edgar should’ve protected him better. He should’ve killed the man who shot Jimmy earlier, gotten him before he got Jimmy.

A tiny, pained noise escapes Jimmy, and Edgar realizes he’s holding too tightly to Jimmy’s sleeping form. It’s strange, Edgar thinks. He’s not like Jimmy, he doesn’t kill unless he has to, and he always says a prayer for the person’s soul when they’re done, asks God to forgive him. But not this time. He hadn’t felt any remorse killing that nameless man in the bank, just a savage satisfaction. There was no prayer for that dead man’s soul, and there wasn’t going to be.

No one could hurt Jimmy and live.

***

In the space between dreaming and waking, Edgar is aware of Jimmy jolting next to him, gasping for air like a drowning man. Another nightmare. Without opening his eyes, or maybe he does open them and it’s too dark to see, or maybe he’s not awake at all, Edgar wraps an arm around the slender form next to him. Jimmy relaxes, and Edgar is seized by distant, fuzzy contentment and adoration for this violent, reckless creature. 

With the slow movements of a dreamer, Edgar presses a kiss to Jimmy’s temple. Jimmy twitches, then hums contentedly. The fever feels like it might be breaking.

Edgar doesn’t remember when he wakes up.

***

The fever has broken by the time Edgar wakes up in the morning, and Edgar makes a mental note to buy Chico some expensive liquor next time he’s in the city. Jimmy’s sitting up again, much like two days ago, though this time the stitches are clean and unbroken when Edgar changes the bandages. The skin around the stitches is barely red and hardly swollen, and when he touches the skin, Jimmy reacts with more irritation than anything. 

“I told you,” he huffs, “I’m fine.”

“You had an infection,” Edgar says. “I doubt that.”

“I am!” Jimmy insists. “Just get me some water and a washcloth, I smell like something died.”

Edgar usually does his best to discourage that sort of behavior, but he’s so relieved to see Jimmy recovering that he doesn’t hesitate to do as he asks. As Jimmy strips down and washes, Edgar tries to read his book and refuses to look higher than mid thigh or lower than navel.

Unfortunately, that still leaves a lot of Jimmy to look at.

In a moment of blasphemy, he reminds Edgar of statues of Jesus hung behind altars: thin, with ribs flaring out like the petals of a strange flower. He’s decorated with scars, white stains on pale pink flesh. The puckered red above his knee will join them soon. Just another mark. 

Jimmy’s too young to be so damaged. The worst part is the way he doesn’t seem to care, always throwing himself into the next danger without a care in the world and dragging Edgar with him. And Edgar wouldn’t care, he’s tried so hard not to care, except that when Jimmy smiles, it’s like he’s really seeing Edgar. Not a wise priest or a nameless woman at a card table, just a man with virtues and vices like any other, and one of these days he’s going to get himself killed and leave Edgar alone.

There’s the sound of tearing paper, and Edgar realizes that he’s been clutching the book so tight that his thumb has torn one of the pages. He looks up to see Jimmy staring at him.

“You okay, Vargas?” Jimmy asks. He looks almost genuinely concerned, and Edgar looks away and hopes Jimmy can’t see his blush.

“I’m fine,” Edgar says. Jimmy frowns, but doesn’t press the issue. They lapse into silence.

***

For all his claims of perfect health, Jimmy still starts getting ready for bed as the sun finishes dipping below the horizon and Edgar fiddles with the knob on the oil lamp. The light has taken on a golden tone, and in it, Jimmy looks like a old painting of a saint as he sits on the bed in nothing but his underpants. There’s a charge in the air that Edgar refuses to name or acknowledge as he crouches in front of Jimmy to inspect his stitches.

“How do you feel?” His voice is too loud in the evening hush, yet somehow muffled.

“Fine,” Jimmy says, like he’s issuing a challenge.

Edgar ignores it and presses the back of his hand to Jimmy’s forehead, brushes it over his cheeks. When he touches to back of Jimmy’s neck, his head falls forward in a way that would be submissive if it weren’t for the way he holds Edgar’s gaze through his eyelashes. The hunger there is so intense that Edgar wants to look away but can’t. It would be so easy to lean forward, to stretch up just enough to press their lips together.

“The fever’s gone,” Edgar says, withdrawing his hand. Jimmy says nothing.

With fingers that barely avoid trembling, Edgar touches the skin next to the stitches and, perhaps if he didn’t know Jimmy as well, he would’ve missed his reaction. The tiny sound of lips parting, the stutter in breathing, the brief flutter of muscles under his fingertips. It’s beautiful, but Edgar ignores it, dampens the corner of a cloth with medicine, and presses it to the stitches. Jimmy hisses out a curse and goes rigid. Dipping a different corner of the cloth into fresh water, Edgar wipes down the stitches with careful, gentle strokes, and Jimmy relaxes again. 

Slowly, deliberately, Jimmy’s legs fall open. Edgar looks up, and his breath catches in his throat. Jimmy looks debauched and _hungry_ , cheeks flushed and biting his lip, so open and inviting. Edgar wants little more than to fall into him.

“Edgar,” Jimmy starts, but Edgar pulls away quickly.

“No,” Edgar says.

Hurt and sadness flicker across Jimmy’s face before settling on anger. “Why not?” he demands. “I see how you look at me, I’m not stupid. You want it just as bad.”

“I said no, Jimmy,” Edgar says. He can’t look Jimmy in the eye, but that doesn’t stop him from reaching out as Jimmy hauls himself to his feet with a grunt. Jimmy swats his hand away. Edgar looks at the floor.

“Is this about the trust thing?” Jimmy asks, and Edgar’s gaze darts back to him, just for a second. He hadn’t realized Jimmy had paid much attention to that. “Because I do trust you. I’ve always trusted you. You think I let just anyone see me the way you have?”

“It’s not about that,” Edgar says.

“Then what?” 

_Because I’m scared,_ Edgar thinks. Jimmy’s going to die young, and this way, Edgar can pretend it won’t hurt as much when it happens. If he touches Jimmy, if he crosses that line, he becomes something Edgar can lose. He becomes real. _They_ become real.

Edgar voices none of this, just stares at the wall over Jimmy’s shoulder and forces himself to stay impassive. After several seconds, Jimmy uncrosses his arms and looks away too. 

“Forget it,” he says, just sounding tired. “I’m going to bed.”

He winces as he starts to lower himself onto the bed, and Edgar automatically reaches out to help him, catching his upper arms and taking the brunt of his weight. Jimmy’s fingers brush softly over the insides of Edgar’s elbows, and Edgar finally looks him in the eye.

“Will you sleep behind me again?” Jimmy asks, unexpectedly small and earnest. The vulnerability in his eyes nearly bowls Edgar over, and his resolve wavers. He wants to give in, it would be so easy.

“Of course,” Edgar says.

***

At first Edgar isn’t sure what woke him up. It’s that time of night when the whole world is dark and still, with the newly waxing moon illuminating only the faintest outlines of the safe room. Time feels suspended, like he could get up and wander the earth as a wraith and when he got back to this place, he could curl back up in bed and wake at sunrise as if nothing at all had happened. He is alone in this world.

A tiny sound pulls him further out of his sleepy stupor, and he becomes aware of the form pressed against his chest, one arm tossed over the warm body in the dark.

Jimmy. He sounds like he’s having another nightmare. Edgar frowns. The fever’s gone, and he’d really hoped the nightmares would go with it. It’s not fair that this is still happening to Jimmy. 

Levering himself up and pressing a whisper of a kiss to Jimmy’s cheek is so easy and familiar that Edgar thinks it would scare him if he were more awake. But he is closer to sleep than wakefulness, and it’s easy to keep going, pressing feather light kisses to what parts of Jimmy’s face he can reach and running soothing fingers through his hair. Still deep in sleep, Jimmy pushes his head against the hand in his hair. He’s so lovely and so sweet. Edgar presses a kiss near the line of his jaw.

The noise Jimmy makes has Edgar’s mind lurching fully awake. It’s a soft, whining moan that even the most sleep addled brain couldn’t mistake for a nightmare. Jimmy’s hips twitch in a useless grind into empty air, and Edgar holds himself very still. Should he stop and roll over, pretend to be asleep until the dream ends? He can’t keep going, Jimmy would kill him if he knew what was happening.

After several agonized seconds, Edgar lowers himself back on the mattress, but keeps one arm wrapped around Jimmy and his other hand buried in his hair. He’s very careful to keep space between their hips. Another needy little noise escapes Jimmy’s mouth, and his hips jerk more insistantly than before, searching for friction against the sheet tossed over their intertwined bodies. Edgar tightens his grip on Jimmy’s middle and tells himself it’s just to keep Jimmy from hurting his leg again.

It’s torture, laying there in the dark, listening to the sounds Jimmy makes and unable to do anything but close his eyes and count the seconds. This is some divine punishment, surely. It’s poetic, probably, being taunted with something he so desperately wants. God, he wants.

Around five minutes, Edgar starts to think he’s made it through the worst of the temptation. The noises are coming less frequently, and the twitches have all but stopped. Tension eases out of Edgar’s spine.

Jimmy lets out the breathiest, most pitiful moan, and Edgar can’t stop himself. The sound goes straight to his dick. With Jimmy’s head pulled against his chest, Edgar reaches under the sheets to palm Jimmy’s cock through his underwear. It twitches beneath the fabric, and Edgar lets his head rest against Jimmy’s shoulder as another sweet, breathy sound escapes him.

“Shh,” Edgar whispers. Jimmy’s hips roll into his palm. “Hold on, hold on, I’m taking care of it. I’ll take care of you.”

The words get him no reaction, but his fingers on Jimmy’s cock, releasing it from his underwear, forces sounds from them both. A more solid moan from Jimmy, and a barely breathed curse from Edgar into the skin of Jimmy’s neck. The weight is perfect in Edgar’s hand, and so hot, feverishly hot. Edgar starts to move.

He keeps his touch slow and just firm enough to get Jimmy off. He doesn’t want Jimmy to wake up, he’s just doing this to keep him from popping his stitches again, he swears. 

It’s weak, even to himself. Jimmy keeps gasping and moaning, jerking his hips into Edgar’s fist. Edgar wants more. He’s desperate for it, he’d take anything. He wants to know how Jimmy would sound with his cock down Edgar’s throat. He wants Jimmy to split him open and fuck him hard across a table like a common whore. He wants Jimmy impatient during a con and crawling under his skirts to suck him off. He wants he wants he wants he wants

“Edgar.” A hand grabs Edgar’s thigh, and Jimmy grinds back hard against Edgar’s cock. Edgar feels like he’s been punched in the gut, all the air rushing out of him.

“Edgar,” Jimmy repeats, soft and hungry and very much awake.

Shit. _Shit._ Edgar’s heart stops for a second before restarting at a breakneck pace. It’s too late to feign sleep. He holds very still in the hopes that Jimmy will just fall back asleep. With any luck, he won’t remember this in the morning.

Jimmy’s hips stutter like he’s torn between fucking up into Edgar’s hand or down onto his cock. “Please,” he whimpers. “I’m so close. I need it, please.”

“Jimmy,” Edgar gasps. How is he supposed to say no to this? 

“Yes,” Jimmy all but sobs, straining to bury his face in Edgar’s neck. “Please please please, don’t stop, please, I’ll give you anything. You can do whatever you want to me, just please don’t stop.”

It’s all Edgar can do not to come just from that. There isn’t a part of Jimmy that isn’t moving, he’s all grasping fingers and grinding hips. His limbs shake where they’re tangled with Edgar’s, wriggling like he’s trying to free himself from his underwear while trying to roll them both over and climb onto Edgar. His cock slips in Edgar’s grip, and precome wets his fingers.

Edgar gives in. He resumes pumping Jimmy’s cock, and Jimmy wails. He’s a force, tonguing and biting whatever he can reach of Edgar’s neck and digging his nails deep into Edgar’s thigh. Every upward thrust of his hips into Edgar’s fist is accompanied by a sharp moan, every backward grind pushes a groan out of Edgar. 

He wanted to give in, he was always going to give in-

“Wanna feel you,” Jimmy gasps, scrabbling at the waist of Edgar’s underwear. “I want to feel your cock.”

The effort it takes to let go of Jimmy and shove the offending garment down around his thighs might’ve been laughable except for the choking noise Jimmy makes when Edgar grinds into the cleft of his ass.

“Oh god,” Jimmy hiccups. “So good. I want- I need-”

“You want me to fill you up?” Edgar asks, brushing his lips over the shell of Jimmy’s ear. Jimmy gives a full bodied shudder.

“Next time,” Jimmy says like it pains him. “I’m too close.”

Edgar groans. “That’s it. Come for me. Let me see you, let me hear you.”

He pumps Jimmy faster, listens to his moans get higher and breathier. He’s so sweet and pliant when he’s close, mostly limp against the mattress and gasping out moans with every roll of Edgar’s hips like he really is getting fucked. It’s beautiful. Edgar bites Jimmy’s neck, digs his teeth into the pulse point there, and Jimmy comes with a cry not unlike the one he made when he got shot, except this time he trails off into a moan, shuddering and shaking as Edgar’s hands get stickier and stickier.

Edgar pumps Jimmy through his orgasm until Jimmy starts clutching weakly at his wrist, still shaking uncontrollably. 

“Stop, please,” Jimmy gasps. “It’s too much.”

Pressing a kiss to a spot just behind Jimmy’s ear, Edgar lets go of Jimmy’s cock and curls his fingers around sharp hip bones, pulling Jimmy’s ass flush against his cock. Jimmy lets out a surprised yelp that breaks into a groan. The fucked out noises he makes as Edgar are beautiful, he’s beautiful, he’s better than Edgar ever dreamed, the product of hundreds of nights of wanting-

“Jimmy,” Edgar breathes, and comes. He holds Jimmy close, mouthing at his neck and shuddering and twitching until the feel of skin against his cock is too much and they both go limp. 

They stay still in the dark for a long time, long enough for their breathing to even out and sync up. After several minutes, Edgar shimmies the rest of the way out of his underwear and haphazardly wiped the mess off Jimmy’s thighs, but they still don’t speak.

Edgar’s nearly asleep when he hears Jimmy finally speak.

“Why’d you change your mind?”

“Hm?” Edgar hums. Jimmy’s so warm, and they’re so peaceful. Why can’t they just sleep? He feels Jimmy roll over, and when Edgar opens his eyes, Jimmy’s are barely visible in the moonlight. 

“Why now?” Jimmy asks. “Why not earlier?”

“Because,” Edgar begins, then hesitates. He sighs and wraps his arm around Jimmy’s shoulders. “You’re too much for me.”

“I know that.” Jimmy’s smile glints like the barrel of a gun in the light. “But why’d you say no all those times?”

Edgar sighs again. “Because I was scared. I’m still scared that I’m going to lose you.”

It’s hard to tell, but he’s pretty sure Jimmy’s face goes uncharacteristically serious. 

“Edgar,” he says. “I promise I won’t leave you.”

Edgar thinks of Jimmy’s fever ridden fears the other night and wonders if he remembers Edgar’s promise. He presses their foreheads together, ignoring Jimmy’s small protest, and just breathes.

 _I love you_ , he thinks.

“Kiss me?” he asks.

Jimmy does.


End file.
